Venal Vows (18+) PAUSED

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰

I'm rich.

I don't know how to describe it to a commoner. Only a few people in my life had the courage to ask 'how rich is your family?' so only a handful of times have I had to describe it without using numerals. For instance, a scholar in my high school drama club years back asked how many Chanel bags I owned, to which I had to inform that Chanel is trashy. It's for people who are reaching. My dad had a doberman named Millie once and her collar was custom Chanel. It's dog-level. So I can't seem to put myself in the point of view of a person who thinks Chanel or whatever other trash you can easily find in the thrifts are expensive.

How rich are we? Lately I've found that the best measurement to generational wealth is through properties, to which I simply answer 'at least five in Monaco' which seems to do the trick. It's not as boastful as mentioning our two other private islands but neither as lowly as saying only fifteen residentials throughout Asia.

And if you think the properties are a lot, you should see my closet. It's a clutter of nonsensical objects. I'm not a hoarder and I give away as much to charity as I can, but somehow, things keep coming in and in to my ownership. By things, it's worth mentioning that two-thirds are clothing. Stuart Weitzman is falling off of my shelf, Versace is a six-foot-tall monster in my closet, and YSL's been on the floor so long that her ass had turned numb. My inanimate friends have long foreign names and it's a shocker that can I remember them all, let alone pronounce the Italian ones without sounding like a drunk mess.

Packing would've been easier if options were a million less. I glared at my suitcase. Then I glared at my six other luggages. 

I put my palm to my forehead. I leave for a trip that I sure as hell do not wanna go to in four fucking hours and my valuables don't feel like being valuable. Shitty enough, every helper in the house had evacuated yesterday, as per my dad's request for them to take a day off in the name of his matrimonial celebration.

I have a thousand reasons as to why I don't want to spend a month on a private island. They range from 'I hate it when sand gets in my ass crack' to 'because my father's fiancé is a bitch'. If I could have it my way, there wouldn't be a wedding in the first place. Trust me, I've tried talking to him in a sensible manner, in a heated manner, and in an emotional manner. Nothing. Still engaged, still about to marry a bitch. And if I could have it my way which, by the way, I definitely can, I wouldn't go. But I'm going anyway. All because I love my dad and I know he'd take it to the grave if I don't cooperate (not that I'm actually cooperating).

People can't imagine the big bad Anthony Hinson braiding a little girl's hair with a smile on his usually flat face. I can. I was that little girl. I was also the little girl who appeared at the foot of his bed too many when she had nightmares about puppets coming to life. I was also the little girl whose golden medals he keeps in a frame in his office. When you love someone, you want the best for them. In this instance, I am not going to let a gold-digging fucker dig her cheap acrylics into our bank accounts.

If I have to sneak into her hotel room and pop her goddamn excuse for fake boobs, I will do it. If I have to slip in laxatives in her nightly detox tea, then so fucking be it. If I have to replace her spray tans with orange spray paint, I promise that I will replace her damn cans with spray paint. And for all I care, that bitch can swim her way back to the city.

I didn't realize how scary I must've looked until my dad stood in the doorway, scared.

"Should I get you some... water? chocolates? uh... bread?"

"Should I get you an exorcist?" I asked accompanied by a glare, "You're possessed if you're still really gonna go through with this."

I knew what was coming next: the 'but I love her' speech that's not so impromptu anymore after all the times he's had to give it. It starts with Mr. Hinson squaring his shoulders. Check. Then, he sighs. Check. He opens his mouth and closes it again. Check. His brows furrow in fatherly concern. Check.